


the more things change

by DeCarabas



Series: Fugitives Together [43]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Post-Game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 20:04:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6022969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeCarabas/pseuds/DeCarabas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the theme of beginnings. A conversation in an Orlesian guest room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the more things change

Hawke squints at the mirror in their Orlesian guest room, much clearer than the one he’d used to shave that morning. More grey hairs than he’s noticed before. But he thinks he’s managed to do a decent job of looking like someone who might legitimately attend a party at a noble estate, where the empress’s apostate arcane advisor is expected to make an appearance.

Half the country has been angling for Empress Celene to step in and put down the unrest in the Circles, since the Chantry can’t seem to manage it; and the mage who has the ear of the empress has proven damnably difficult for anyone from the Mages’ Collective to get in touch with. But their hostess is sympathetic to their cause, having lost a child to the Circle, and had extended a quiet invitation to her two ‘distant cousins’ to join her for the festivities.

He watches Anders’ reflection in the mirror, sitting on the bed and doing up the buttons of his borrowed doublet; black embellished by delicate gold embroidery, over the deep blue sleeves of his silk shirt. It suits him, but it doesn’t suit his expression; focused, a deep furrow between his eyebrows. More like preparing for a battle than for a party. Then again, this is Orlais; there might not be much difference. And the nobility always did tend to put Anders on edge, even back in Hightown. Hawke can’t say he’s overly comfortable in silks and velvets himself, but for Anders—or maybe Justice—the complacency grates on him like a personal insult. All that power and influence, everything they could do to change things where he can’t, wasted on self-serving games.

“Orlais is turning me grey,” Hawke announces, running a hand through his hair before turning away from the mirror.

It takes a moment for Anders to focus on him; Hawke can visibly see him shifting gears. Eyebrows raised and a hint of a smile playing about his lips, he looks Hawke up and down. “You look distinguished,” he offers.

“I look like my father.” His father had a grey streak like this one. Maker, he _is_ starting to look like his father. “And _you_ look just the same as the day we met.” Though clean-shaven, for the moment. Hawke reaches out to feel that, thumb stroking up over the short hair in front of his ear, and Anders leans into the contact.

“The day we met,” Anders echoes. “So, exhausted, covered in blood, smelling like sewer?”

“Hey. That was a life-changing event, thank you very much. Love at first sight.” He grins, watching Anders’ eyes crinkle at the corners. Maybe there are a few more laugh lines now. He hopes there are. And that permanently worried crease across his brow—that was always there, as long as Hawke’s known him. “You kind of threatened me. When we met.” He lets go of him, makes a vague gesture meant to indicate a staff.

“What? I didn’t.”

“You did.” He can’t remember Anders’ exact words, but he remembers the tone, the protective line of his body, the intensity of his eyes, the taste of his mana in the air around them like a storm about to burst, feeling the weight of Justice’s presence without realizing what it was. “It made an impression. I’m pretty sure you thought we were Coterie.” Or any of the gangs who’d been giving Anders trouble at the time. He’d felt like he had _smuggler_ tattooed on his forehead.

He can see the recognition dawn. “Oh, Maker. I did, didn’t I? And that’s your idea of love at first sight? I’m a little concerned.”

“Mm-hm. I walked out the door and said, ‘I’m going to marry that man.’” Though less because of those first few moments and more because of—well, everything. The sheer relief of an understanding smile from a fellow apostate, but one who was so disconcertingly, bafflingly _open_. Confessions about nightmares and pet cats. Using his magic in front of strangers who Hawke’s gut instinct said would bring the templars down on him. Too open to survive anywhere, never mind Kirkwall. And yet he did.

And even if Hawke has revised that initial impression over the years, Anders still shows every emotion on his face.

Anders shakes his head, disbelieving. “Really,” says Hawke, “those were my exact words. You can ask Carver.”

“If that’s a proposal, it’s the worst one I’ve ever heard,” Anders teases.

“Why, what am I up against?”

“You’d be surprised. Isabela proposed twice, actually. Offered me all the freedom of the open seas. Can you beat that?”

“Hm. Well, if you give me a minute, I could try to find some goats and wheat.”

Hawke picks up the Orlesian masks lying on the bed beside Anders; half-masks designed to mark them as family to the lady of the house. The party will be starting, and there’s no telling when the empress’s advisor will put in an appearance, or how long it will last. She’s notorious that way. But he hesitates before putting his mask on, growing serious.

“You know, my parents never married,” Hawke says. “Not technically. Not in the eyes of the Chantry.” His father couldn’t, technically. Apostate. They could have lied about that and gone through the ceremony anyway, as they did with so many other things; but they hadn’t.

He hadn’t realized that until after his magic came in. Something his father had said when they’d been looking for someplace new to settle, when his mother had been looking worn and harried. Something about her not being tied to them, not having to deal with all of it. She’d disagreed. Loudly.

“They ran from Kirkwall and started calling themselves husband and wife, and so they were.”

Anders watches him uncertainly, and Hawke holds out one of the masks to him. Shrugs.

“We could—” Hawke starts. And Anders ducks his head, takes the mask without looking straight at him.

He watches Anders slip his mask into place, and changes his mind about what he was about to suggest. “We could change that,” he says instead. “Make the kind of world where I could have proposed to you properly, with our real names, without having to hide anything. In front of all the world. Make them recognize it.”

And that’s never going to be them, not when their real names are plastered across posters with rewards and demands for execution; he doesn’t expect that to go away, no matter how things play out. But it could be other mages like them. And Anders meets his eyes again from behind the mask, and his smile is warm.

“Marry me,” Anders says.


End file.
